


Sandcastles in the Sky (and Other Prime Real Estate)

by everysecondtues (tuesday)



Category: Fake News RPF, The Daily Show RPF
Genre: 2008 Fic, Divorce, F/F, F/M, M/M, Queer Themes, mostly happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1225552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesday/pseuds/everysecondtues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen doesn't have it all figured out, but he's trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sandcastles in the Sky (and Other Prime Real Estate)

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted for a secret santa exchange in December of '08. It was written for muffin_love77 (Wish 33), for the Jon/Stephen prompt: "At some point, you have to deal with things that happened. Because… they're there." 
> 
> Original author's note: "Thanks so much to bessemerprocess for betaing and making this better, and to evercourant and omnipresentdmat for audiencing. You are all fabulous!"

"At some point, you have to deal with things that happened. Because," Jon paused, swallowed, ran a rough hand through his hair, and Stephen wanted to reach out, but couldn't, couldn't. Quietly, tone bleak, Jon said, "Because they're there."

\--

When Stephen was six, he was convinced he was going to grow up to marry his best friend. "We'll have five children," he told his mom proudly, "Three boys and two girls."

His mother crouched down and smiled and hugged him to her body, the cotton of her shirt warm and her neck smooth where his tiny face pressed into it. She smelled of lavender perfume, but also of spices and flour, making Stephen think of the cookies baking in the oven, and he remembered thinking he was hungry and wondering if she would give him one cookie or two.

"Sweetie," she said as Stephen thought of sweet chocolate and dense cookie dough, "you need a mommy to have children."

"I can be the mommy," Stephen said proudly, curling his fingers into her smooth hair. He happily imagined being the one to bake cookies and hug his own children in the kitchen.

"It doesn't work like that," his mother explained, and that was how Stephen had gotten the Talk, wrapped in his mother's arms and waiting for chocolate chip cookies.

\--

People used to ask sometimes if Stephen was bitter about being passed over as the next host of _The Daily Show_ , but the truth was that in the old days (old, certainly not golden), it was a just a paycheck, a way to keep his family fed. Stephen never expected to stay too long, and he certainly hadn't expected to _want_ to stay, much less get wrapped up in the show and its people. It was a mystery to him how he went from dreading the time spent diverted from other projects to willingly devoting more time and energy and somehow becoming the longest lasting correspondent.

That mystery had a name: Jon Stewart.

\--

"We're not CNN," Jon said early on, when they were still transitioning from being a fluff entertainment variety show to a political fluff entertainment variety show. "You can choose a side."

"What if I want to choose the side of Big Foot?" Stephen asked, trying to keep a straight face, knowing the hundred he'd put down in front of the others that those shitty stories wouldn't make it past their new host was safe.

Jon laughed, a sort of giggling cackle, and it was a little worrisome how appealing he was even sounding like a total dork. "I thought you were a Democrat," Jon said.

"Big Foot is a Democrat," Stephen asserted. "Look at the facts--he has amazing strengths and yet allows the much weaker humans to drive him into hiding."

Jon laughed again, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth, and said, "Are you really trying to assert that Republicans are the humans here?"

"They're certainly in danger of overrunning the Earth," said Stephen, smiling and trying not to stare too obviously at the dark flecks in the blue of Jon's eyes, at the creases forming in the corners of his mouth as he grinned at Stephen. 

"So you're saying what, we deal with the Republicans the way the Chinese dealt with overpopulation, instate a birth limit?"

"God, no," Stephen said, schooling his face in proper mock horror, "Out-breeding them is our only hope."

Jon clapped a warm hand against Stephen's shoulder and said, "See how easy it is to cross that line? Comedians are allowed to have opinions so long as they're funny."

This close, Jon smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and cologne, and Stephen took in a deep, choked breath of the scent of sandalwood and burnt tobacco. Jon's hand lingered, heavy against the cotton of Stephen's shirt, before he finally turned away, walked into his office. Standing there and watching after him, Stephen thought about how it would be all too easy to cross that line.

\--

It's not that Stephen never had opportunities to cross it. Jon had smoked weed and played soccer to make his college life more bearable. After his switch to Northwestern, Stephen danced and sang and knew that if he wanted it enough, cock-sucking was on the table.

It was a shock, actually, the transition from blue blazers to torn jeans and legwarmers, from a parade of assumed straightness to the assumption by the entire campus that if you were a male theater major who wasn't out, it was only because you hadn't found your way to the closet door from behind the shoes and Christmas presents. Stephen felt detached, separate in his button down shirts and khaki pants, still so very in love with the dream of three boys and two girls to hug in a warm kitchen (because even at twenty, Stephen knew that it wasn't his masculinity that was under threat and there was nothing wrong with stealing a little of his mother's role for himself). It was like stepping from a cold, but survivable room out into the heart of winter in hopes of reaching some distant bonfire. Every distant flicker of light seemed to taunt him. Even the weather at Northwestern seemed to press this point--the wind ripped at his skin, sky a brilliant, desolate blue, too cold to even snow.

The professors pushed at his psyche where the weather buffeted his body. "Push deeper," they said. "Be honest," they said. "Show real emotion."

After one entirely too honest session, having pulled anger around himself like a flimsy cape to cover his all too naked emotions, one professor came up to him, said, "I think you should consider a little therapy."

Already feeling winded, like she'd landed several harsh blows on his solar plexus, he managed only a meager, "Oh really?"

"Yes," she said, voice steady and determined and not a little concerned, "because for a few minutes there, I was physically afraid you were going to punch me."

He couldn't help but laugh at this, because he was the one who felt like he'd taken a beating, like she'd dug her heel into every open wound and then asked him to emote more. One of the other students--Chris? Cory? Stephen couldn't remember, designated him C--came over and put an arm around him, said, "We've got another class," and then he took Stephen back to his dorm. 

Once they were through the door, Stephen roused a little from his near fugue state to C pulling off his jacket and pressing Stephen into the squeaky twin bed and its soft fleece covers. "Wait," Stephen said, "I don't--I'm not--" and he looked into C's eyes (the grey blue of stone) and enjoyed too much C's steadying hand over Stephen's chest and too-fast beating heart. In that brief, exposed moment he surrendered himself, lay down and knew that wherever C wanted to lead, Stephen would follow. He was too tired to resist anymore.

C laughed and said, "She may be right about the therapy," and, moving into the bed, "Budge over," and then something else Stephen didn't hear, his good ear pressed against C's shoulder, hair being ruffled by slim, affectionate fingers. Stephen drifted off to the feel of C's fingers drifting slowly across his neck and scalp, like he thought Stephen was nothing more than a cat to be soothed. When he woke later, groggy and wrapped in a close stranger's arms, it was to a smile that welcomed, invited, but was nothing like a command.

Sure, Stephen had opportunities. But he didn't take advantage of them.

\--

"I don't think you're taking this seriously," said Evie.

"You're--I thought you were joking," said Stephen. Then, mouth gone dry, tongue a dead, clumsy object in his mouth, "So that's really--" Stephen stopped and took the envelope from her hand, gently, fingers like tweezers lifting pieces of shattered eggshell.

"But I never--" Stephen said, trying to swallow and unable to work up the necessary moisture, throat making a dry click. "I was always--"

"I know," Evie said, and she blinked too often, too rapidly. Her eyes were shiny, and Stephen would have hugged her, pressed her small, perfumed body into his own, vowed to protect her and cherish her and keep her safe from all harm, but that apparently wasn't the way the world worked anymore. She sat down on the couch with him, pressed her hands around his own. 

"We do love each other," Evie said.

There were a lot of things Stephen could have said, was tempted to say. "Do we?" would come across as either needy or accusatory. "I know," was too Han Solo for this moment and he didn't want to choke up the next time he watched the original trilogy with his boys. A joke might have been easier, deflected a little of the tension, but it might come back to Evie accusing him of not taking this seriously again, and now that he knew, knew it wasn't--that wasn't a concern anymore.

After a long, tenuous moment, drawn tight like a frayed string, Stephen drew in a shaky breath and said, "But that's not enough, is it?"

"No," Evie said. "Not anymore, I don't think so."

\--

The first time Stephen kissed Jon was performance, grinning at Amy's laughing challenge and requesting Jon's permission with eyes alone. At Jon's almost imperceptible nod, Stephen stalked across the room and swept Jon against the wall he'd been standing by--and once Stephen began the kiss, it was clear all Jon had expected was a brush of lips against his cheek or temple or hand. Instead, Stephen went all out, open-mouthed and with hands grasping, exploring Jon's body only where others could see them. Jon had flinched back the first second, then played along, parted his lips for Stephen's tongue as he grabbed a handful of Stephen's ass, squeezed firmly to Amy's loud delight and Paul's startled laughter.

Stephen had tried to focus on Amy's cat-calls and Paul's continued laughter and not the slightly dry lips under his own; the tongue pressing back, wet and smooth into his mouth; the way Jon still tasted faintly of the after-dinner mint he'd popped in his mouth on the way out of the restaurant an hour ago. Stephen tried to concentrate on giving a satisfying performance, on putting on a show, but he couldn't help but feel Jon's hand at his neck, the pads of Jon's fingers stirring the short hairs where Stephen's hairline began, Jon's thumb swiping lazily back and forth against Stephen's skin. 

When Stephen pulled back, he was smiling helplessly and shaking a little inside as he gave Amy and Paul a short bow. 

"I'm glad you feel comfortable enough in our friendship to whore me out to make a simple point," Jon said dryly.

"If I were whoring you out, I would have had Paul kiss you," Stephen countered, "and we'd actually be getting money out of it."

Amy smirked and pulled out her wallet.

"Hahaha, no," Jon said, except he really was laughing as she tucked a five in his waistband. 

"Don't let Stephen steal it all," Amy said, "Keep a little and buy yourself some pretty lip gloss."

"Is this even enough for lip gloss?" Jon laughed, but didn't remove the five from its crumpled place, the edge sticking out from the waist of his jeans. 

"Don't worry," Stephen said, drawing the five back out, fingers brushing against the cotton of Jon's grey shirt and the soft skin of his belly, "I'll take care of you, baby. We'll splurge on watermelon flavor."

"I don't know whether to be offended that I'm so cheap," Jon said, "or that my pimp apparently gets a one-hundred percent cut and thinks he can appease me with lip gloss."

"Be glad he doesn't try to get free samples of the merchandise," Paul said, still chuckling a bit.

"Weren't you just watching?" Jon said.

"Please, that was just a little promo," said Amy. "It's not like he bent you over and--"

"And I think that's the end of this evening," Stephen said, still smiling. "We've intruded on your hospitality long enough."

"Like you could ever intrude," Amy said and pressed soft lips to Stephen's cheek, following lips with fingers to brush a smudge of lipstick away. She hugged him close and spoke, quiet into his left ear, "Take care of yourself. Don't--take care of yourself."

Then Paul took her place in Stephen's arms and said, loud and boisterous, "Feel free to intrude on my hospitality anytime." 

He gave Stephen a cheerful leer, and Stephen laughed and said, "What hospitality?" Paul gave Stephen one last squeeze, and then Stephen was following Jon out of Amy's apartment.

Halfway down the stairs, Jon said, "So they're--I thought they weren't--"

"We've, all three of us have always been very . . . close," Stephen said carefully.

"Hm," Jon said in a considering tone, "Close, or _close_?" After an agonized moment, Jon said, "Never mind, it's none of my business."

Stephen looked down, concentrated on not tripping down the cement, wondered if maybe the elevator might have been a smarter choice, if less ecologically sound. He said, "We--we've always loved each other. But it's not--for me, it wasn't--"

Jon gripped Stephen's elbow when he stumbled, Jon's hand strong and steadying and entirely too much, too confining for this moment. "It's none of my business," Jon repeated, voice low.

Stephen stopped, turned to Jon when they hit the next landing. "Isn't it?" Stephen asked, swallowed hard and wondered if maybe he'd miscalculated, misread the intent in the horizons of Jon's eyes, misheard the pleased groan only minutes ago when he'd flicked his tongue along Jon's bottom lip--

Their second kiss was hard, clumsy, Stephen's back against the rough concrete wall and his hands gripping grey cotton, holding on like he was afraid of being swept away. It was exhilarating, terrifying, oddly freeing--and yet, it was nothing like a performance at all.

\--

Long before _The Colbert Report_ , when Stephen was still relatively unknown on the streets of New York, no more famous than perhaps John Oliver or Ed Helms, he walked around with a freedom he didn't yet know he'd possessed. When he stepped into a coffee shop, warm air blasted against his skin, a welcome respite from the bitter cold of mid-winter. No one looked twice at him until he reached the barista, who, after taking his order for a simple black coffee, snapped her eyes back to him once more with recognition when she handed him his change.

"Hey, you're--you're that gay guy," she said excitedly, and Stephen felt every muscle stiffen. "On, on that show, _Strangers with Candy_ ," she continued, "I love that show."

Stephen dropped the coins in the tip jar and pocketed the dollar as she blushed suddenly and said, "Sorry, right, your coffee."

He couldn't remember what he said to her when he accepted the coffee, and his first sip scalded his mouth, burned the whole way down his throat and settled heavy and sour in his stomach. He walked right back out into the cold, tramped through the slush toward a stoplight, not really paying attention to where he was going. The warmth of the coffee through the paper cup faded quickly, and he dropped it in a trash can at the corner, shivering and sick.

\--

"We're in a stairwell." Then, fingers still helplessly drifting up and down Jon's form, burying themselves in the cotton of his shirt and in his hair, "I'm married." Jon had stopped, hands still clenched in Stephen's jacket, and Stephen said, " _You're_ married. We're both married." Stephen couldn't resist leaning forward, pressing his forehead into Jon's and trying to calm his labored breath.

"Shit," Jon said succinctly. 

"I can't," Stephen said, "I can't--"

"It's okay," Jon said, and he hadn't let Stephen go, just pulled him closer. He wasn't wearing cologne, but he still smelled of sandalwood, some sort of soap, Stephen thought as he took deep breaths and tried counting backward in threes.

"I couldn't--Evie and--"

"It's okay," and Jon didn't kiss Stephen again, kept his hands resting on Stephen's shoulder blades, a more platonic position than Stephen could manage, his own hands now at Jon's waist and trembling with the urge to move them again, do more.

They stood there several minutes, clutching one another's bodies, and then Jon said, "Okay," and let go, took several steps back. "Do we--should we talk about this?"

"What are we supposed to say?" Stephen presented Jon a lop-sided smile, the best he could do under the circumstances. 

"I'm sorry we're both so irresistible," Jon said, "it's just the curse of handsome men gifted with incredible senses of humor?"

"I'll give you the handsome," Stephen said and shoved his hands in his pockets to prevent himself from reaching out or rubbing a hand at his mouth, still tender, tingling where Jon's teeth had grazed his lower lip, "but who ever sold you on the idea that you're funny?"

Jon grinned at him, and the equilibrium wasn't restored--the air between them remained tense, charged with something Stephen couldn't let himself give into--but it was a start. They walked down the rest of the stairs together, and the next time Stephen stumbled, Jon didn't reach out a hand to steady him.

\--

Stephen met Evelyn on a blind date.

It wasn't love at first sight, but he'd long since resigned himself to the idea that a fairy tale romance wasn't in his future. Considering the non-Disneyfied versions he'd read as a child, that was probably for the best.

He liked Evie's smile, curled at the edges with private amusement, that her eyes were kind, welcoming. She smelled faintly of wildflowers, almost like lavender, her shampoo or body wash, something he only caught when he leaned in close to impart some joke. Her laugh was comforting. By the end of dinner, he decided he wanted her as a friend if nothing else. One date turned into two into three into seven. They went out for another dinner and Evie stared past him as the waitress swept away with their orders.

Stephen turned to watch the server walk away, hips swaying gently and long, blonde ponytail bobbing back and forth with every step. "She's very pretty," Stephen said after turning back to Evie with a small grin, "but I think I like you more."

"She is, isn't she," Evie agreed, voice thoughtful, and it took Stephen years to notice she would always skip over that second part, not because it was assumed, but because Evie considered it irrelevant.

Their talk turned to children--Evie wanted two daughters and a son some day, and while it wasn't the five children Stephen once dreamed of, it was definitely a start--and they continued conversing light and pleasant, the rest of the meal wholly unremarkable except for the way Evie's eyes dragged on the server each time she refilled their glasses of water.

\--

"Are you okay?" Jon asked. Stephen was sprawled out on Jon's couch, which was more comfortable than Stephen's (Jon could always pick the best furniture), letting one leg dangle off the cushions.

"You know," Stephen said philosophically, unsure whether he was answering the question or avoiding it entirely, "one of my teachers once told me I could use therapy."

"Really?" Jon said and crossed to the couch. He sat on the far end, pinning Stephen's leg against the back cushion, turned so his back rested against the armrest and he faced Stephen. Stephen considered making a joke about having Jon between his legs, but couldn't work up the necessary effort for a proper delivery.

He also thought about explaining that day, that whole period of his life, how there was too much or not enough of himself in everything that he attempted, every character he portrayed. He tried to shape words into pieces that could slot together to give an adequate picture of the way the cold had seeped into his bones despite layers of sweaters, and how even curled in an all too platonic bed with others, he could never quite get warm. In the end, words failed him.

"I wasn't a very good actor," Stephen said simply, drew his other leg back onto the couch, settled his foot in Jon's lap.

Jon placed a hand on Stephen's ankle, the tips of his fingers sliding under Stephen's slacks to press light and warm against his dress sock. Blue smudged shadows under Jon's eyes, and his lips pressed pale and thin together. His gaze remained fixed on his hand, his bare fingers. Stephen had never asked about the lack of a ring, and he couldn't bring himself to do so now, with Jon's hand creeping up to touch the bare skin of Stephen's calf and his eyes still distant, contemplating.

"You're a much better actor than I am."

They stayed that way for several long minutes, saying nothing more.

\--

The day after the divorce went through, Jon took him out drinking.

After only the second beer, Stephen put his head in his arms and couldn't bring himself to raise it again, to let Jon see how very little control he had, how despite his training he couldn't even school his own expression to anything but misery. Stephen felt a hand settle on his shoulder, fingers brush close to his neck, and Stephen leaned into it, undone, feeling like he was sliding toward some ledge, some plunge into the abyss from which he might never recover. 

Jon's hand alone felt like it was holding him back even as it seemed to nudge him forward.

\--

Despite Stephen's jokes about spending all his time in high school either reading alone or playing Dungeons & Dragons with male friends like a total nerd, he did have some female friends. Every Wednesday Kathy and Lauren and Margaret stormed his table, kicked out all of the other boys, and proceeded to drag Stephen into their girl talk. This was before Stephen had his epiphany about theater and it was certainly before most women could appreciate Stephen's varied charms. It was before Stephen would have laid any claim to charm at all.

Talk ranged from shoes to chemistry class to Brandon Crouch's ass. Stephen smiled and nodded politely and occasionally shot helpless glances to his male friends across the cafeteria, who tended to laugh at him and say something like, "You're the only guy I know who would complain about having lunch with a small harem of pretty girls."

Stephen suspected they would understand if they had to sit through half an hour of waxing lyrical about what to wear on a perfect date.

On one especially horrifying Wednesday, somehow the topic of sex came up. "You don't lose your virginity if it's just oral sex," said Lauren blasely. "If you don't pop your hymen, it doesn't count."

"What about anal," Margaret countered as Stephen wished he could sink through the floor and straight down to hell, which surely couldn't be any worse.

Kathy pursed her lips and graced Stephen with a look of pity. She didn't change the subject, though maybe what she said next was her own pathetic attempt at it. She proceeded to focus on blow jobs and the mechanics thereof. Lauren grinned wickedly and explained about relaxing throat muscles, practicing first on a banana. When finally they left him and his friends drifted over to pick him up and usher him off to his next class, Stephen was a broken man.

Stephen might have joked about having only male friends, but he wasn't kidding when he said that high school was both miserable and immensely mortifying.

\--

"I did keep my vows," Stephen said to his arms, to the sticky table in front of his face.

"I know." Jon didn't move, and his voice was hushed, a mouse treading softly on winter snow.

"It was important to me." Stephen didn't know how to explain, never knew how to lay it out in linear fashion, how to chronicle the course of his life so that it made any sense even to himself. Everything was jumbled, like tangled skeins of yarn, and he couldn't sort out which string was connected to past projects and what was simply unnecessary extra. For this brief moment, Stephen wanted to tell Jon everything, let someone else figure out what was important, find some order in the chaos, but words stuck in his throat.

After several minutes, perhaps realizing that Stephen couldn't go on, Jon repeated, "I know."

"Why?" Stephen asked, chuckled bitterly. "Why was it so important to when she didn't--when neither of us even--" Stephen swallowed hard, swallowed back down the words he knew didn't matter now.

"I didn't--Tracey and I--" Jon began awkwardly. He fell silent, and his fingers skidded gently back and forth against Stephen's neck, pressed lightly against knobs of bone and into the tense muscles where Stephen's shoulders began, slowly leeching tension away.

Eventually, Jon said, "Let's get the hell out of here."

"And then what?" Stephen asked, finally raising his head.

"I, uh, I have Glenfiddich at my new apartment," Jon spoke nervously, and Stephen wasn't sure if it was worry that Stephen would read too much into him stocking alcohol at his apartment (and Stephen did worry a little, but oddly enough, separation had been good for Jon in some ways, the bags under his eyes a little lighter, the desperate tinge to his gaze a little less pronounced) or if it was concern that Stephen would read too much into the offer itself.

Stephen still had trouble getting words out, but he smiled tiredly his acceptance. When Jon stood, Stephen followed.

\--

"I want the kids," Stephen said.

"Stephen--"

He held up a hand, willed it not to shake. "I still love you, and I still--I want us to be friends, but I think it's important that we're honest with each other."

"Because that's always been so important to us," Evie smiled sadly.

Stephen took in a deep breath. Evie smelled like cinnamon today, and flour and icing. He pushed out the choked air and tried again: 

"Maybe now is a good time to start."

Evie looked down at her hands. It hit him how small they were, folded on top of one another. The nails on the right, topmost hand were short, ragged, and Stephen tried not to let himself think about her chewing on her nails and worrying over this, over them. Neither was losing the love of their life, but if they couldn't--if--

It was all too likely they were each losing their best friend. 

"Okay," Evie said, looking up. "We'll figure it out."

Taking in another, steadier breath, Stephen allowed himself to hope so.

\--

They sat on the wood floor of Jon's living room, old men playing at being young again. Stephen knew his knees would crack when he rose and Jon's back would pain him later, cause him to walk slightly hunched for a while, but for now they sprawled out like they still believed they would live forever.

Close at hand were two tall water glasses a third full of something much stronger. The half-full ( _half-full_ , he repeated emphatically to himself) bottle of Glenfiddich rested in front of them for easy access. Stephen let himself lean into Jon's body, eventually slid down and rested his head in Jon's lap, rubbing his cheek gently against the worn denim across Jon's thighs. His glasses had long since been placed on the end table. Jon's hands made their way back to Stephen's shoulders, his neck, drawn inexorably into his hair, alternating a light massage with the tips of his fingers and scratching his short nails gently along Stephen's scalp.

Jon smelled like fabric softener and Glenfiddich and something more, something that pulled at Stephen like a firm hand rousing him from slumber, that called all his nerves to light and his skin to warm, demanded him to answer, answer, answer. Stephen put a hand on Jon's knee and breathed deep.

"Did you--how long have you known?" Stephen asked after a while.

At first, Jon didn't answer, and Stephen counted off seconds, wondered if Jon was going to pretend to misunderstand. After at least forty seconds (Stephen lost count between the fingers still ministering to his scalp and the shift of muscles under his cheek as Jon moved his legs), Jon said, voice gone a few notes higher with something like pain, "A long--a very long time."

"Mm," Stephen said and turned his head, moved his hand up Jon's thigh and higher, fumbled with the zipper and button of Jon's jeans.

"Stephen, what--" Jon said, though they both knew exactly what Stephen was doing.

" _Please_ ," Stephen said, and Jon sighed and leaned back, spread his legs in tacit permission.

Stephen didn't wait for any further signs or words spoken, just reached down and in, for heated skin and that scent of something more. The sounds Jon made, hands clenched in Stephen's hair, were nothing like protest.

\--

There was this once that Paul and Amy offered, wrapped him in their arms, surrounded him with unconditional love on all sides, and he'd never before felt so cherished.

"I'm sorry," Stephen had spoken into Amy's hair, and she'd said, "Oh, sweetie," and Paul had said, "We'll always love you. We'd never--we'll always be here for you," and both had squeezed him tighter, buttressed him like his own personal pillow fort.

As the years passed, it was always a memory Stephen could reach for to draw strength.

\--

"Are we going to talk about this?" Stephen asked after sitting up the next morning, uncertain, still feeling raw and cracked open. His knees ached and his shoulder stung where red marks in the shape of a mouth and teeth lay. His nerves skittered anxiously under his skin as he waited for Jon to look at him.

Jon laughed and put a hand over his face. "No," Jon said. "No, I guess not." Stephen didn't have to see Jon's expression to tell he was unhappy.

\--

It went to court. He got the kids.

His lawyer said that it helped that Evie immediately started openly seeing someone, a woman with whom she had possibly been having an affair for years. The only reason Stephen didn't punch the jack-ass was that Evie got there first.

"I want to give you some weekends," Stephen said, pressing an icepack to her knuckles afterward, once his lawyer had stormed off after Stephen had convinced him to let it go. "And, and if you--you don't have to say yes, but--"

"Spit it out," Evie said, not unkindly. 

Stephen managed to explain in fumbling words while his palms went as cold and numb as he hoped her fist was, explain that someone would have to watch their children when he couldn't be at home, and if ever she wanted to--

He barely managed not to make a _Mrs. Doubtfire_ joke and felt rewarded in his restraint when Evie smiled warmly and said, "I'd like that."

\--

"I wanted to work it out," Jon blurted out, awkward and sudden in front of two in-studio audiences.

Stephen knew Jon's divorce had gone through the day before, but all he had today was this tenuous connection, Jon's face on the screen in front of him, checking in before they were given a go to start the Toss. Stephen had considered calling if there were technical difficulties and he couldn't see for himself how Jon was holding up. He should have called, he knew, but he couldn't resist asking, Jon's worn eyes and mouth tight at the corners in full view, "Are you okay?"

He should have known not to push Jon to reveal himself in front of a crowd.

"Jon--" Stephen said, all too aware of the eyes on them, the many eager ears yearning to hear just a scrap of their conversation.

What could he say? He knew Jon had never wanted to be his father, would have kept on trying, his own happiness be damned. He also knew Tracey hadn't agreed, hadn't wanted that for any of them.

"I'll call you later," Stephen managed. Then it was time for the Toss and Stephen couldn't say anything real at all.

\--

More than anything, Stephen loved his children.

When Madeline was born, he felt like his heart was bulging, trying to burst out of his chest in an Aliens-esque joy. His breathing had gone funny and his hands shook as he was handed her red, wrinkled bundle, surprisingly light for such a heavy, welcome weight on his shoulders. Her squalling attempt to deafen his one good ear was the most precious sound in the entire world. 

Every child after was the same.

One weekend he took them to the park, though Maddie said she was too old for such things and Peter was going through a phase where he claimed he was allergic to the outdoors. John alone was enthusiastic, skipping and tumbling like a small, clumsy Saint Bernard around Stephen's feet as he lifted the large wicker picnic basket and ushered his children to the door.

"Your mother's meeting us," Stephen said, and that got Peter in the car, though Maddie's frown grew more pronounced, and she slammed the car door after her.

At the park, Peter fed his peanut butter and jelly sandwich a few crumbs at a time to the teeming ants and John scraped his arm trying to clamber up a tree. Maddie had brought her ipod and put on something loud and angry that Stephen could hear faintly through her headphones. Evie had brought several blankets and her girlfriend, Kate, a cheerful younger woman with a dark ponytail and firm handshake.

The grass was cool at their feet and the day shone down bright upon them, the clouds scattered and thin.

Stephen thought of Jon alone with his dogs, of the way he no longer met Stephen's gaze full-on, eyes always darting to the side. He thought of how hard it was to reach out to someone when you'd spent your entire life training yourself to pull away. He thought of crossing imaginary lines in drifting sand, of snow melting in his heart's landscape.

Then there was a small hand tugging at his shirt for attention, and Stephen thought of nothing more than his children's smiles and laughter, of how even Maddie eventually put her ipod away and struck up a conversation with Kate about _Daft Punk_.

It wasn't a perfect day, but it was close enough.

\--

Stephen didn't call. He had every intention of doing so, headed straight for his office and the phone, but in the end it was unnecessary. Jon was waiting there, seated in Stephen's chair and twirling a cheap, white pen between his fingers. He was wearing a grey t-shirt over a dark long-sleeved shirt, the frayed cuffs reaching halfway down his hands. When he looked up, startled at Stephen's entrance, he dropped the pen.

"Jon," said Stephen, swallowed thickly a couple times. "I--I shouldn't have--"

Jon stood and crossed over to him.

His fingers were rough against Stephen's cheek through the stage make-up. "Stephen," and his name was soft, so very soft from Jon's mouth, "I'm okay. Really."

Jon's lips were also soft and a little wet against Stephen's. He gripped Jon's arm with one hand and held on, ignored the cotton under his fingers in favor of skin and a tongue pressing in, coaxing and urgent against his own. Jon smelled like make-up remover and hair gel, and he made gentle broken noises when Stephen began to kiss him back.

When he pulled away, Jon had smears of lipstick around his mouth and foundation skating up his palm and fingers. Taking a step back and feeling for the wall, for anything to shore him up, Stephen had to wonder if he looked anywhere near as wrecked.

After a moment, Jon said, "At some point, you have to deal with things that happened. Because," he paused, swallowed, ran a rough hand through his hair.

Stephen wanted to reach out, but couldn't, couldn't, kept close to the wall, clutched his hands together before they did anything rash on their own accord like his traitorous lips had seconds before. 

Quietly, tone bleak, Jon said, "Because they're there."

\--

It wasn't any particular day or moment or second that Stephen decided to fall in love with Jon Stewart. He didn't look over from a correspondence skit to Jon seated at the desk and think, "Today would be a good day to tear out my heart and gift it to someone." It was slow, gradual, snowflakes drifting down one after another to form the perfect conditions for an avalanche.

Sure, Stephen eventually became aware of it. Who wasn't aware of thousands of feet of frozen water crystals bearing down on you, blotting out the sky and sweeping you off your feet so that by the time you struggled out--shaking and disoriented and terrified and exhausted--you had no idea where you were or how you'd ended up there? 

Or maybe Jon wasn't the avalanche, maybe he was the person digging into the snow from the surface, the hands reaching in and pulling Stephen out, brushing clumps of snow and ice from Stephen's face and jacket, leading him indoors to a warm fire and warmer bed, every action spelling out welcome and safety and love, love, love.

\--

And he wasn't quite sure how this happened, suddenly being several steps forward and clasped in Jon's arms again. 

"I want to," Stephen said, "I want to, I just--" He stopped and smiled at Jon, at his hair tousled from the wind and his walk over, at his eyes crinkled at the corners and blue like ice melting, at how utterly ridiculous he looked with Stephen's stage make-up smeared on his face. "I'm just--really bad at this."

"I hadn't noticed," Jon deadpanned, hands fisted in the back of Stephen's jacket.

"Shut up," Stephen said, hands helplessly smoothing down the front of Jon's t-shirt, "I wasn't the one who couldn't even look at me the morning after."

"You sounded like you were _dying_ ," Jon said. "And--and wait, are we actually arguing about this?"

"No." Then, "Not unless it leads immediately to make-up sex."

"Let's skip to the make-up sex," Jon agreed. He leaned forward, and the kiss this time was gentle, tongue coaxing Stephen's mouth open once more. Stephen gladly followed Jon's lead.

He was less glad when Jon withdrew once more to say, "No, wait, I can't get over it, are you seriously suggesting that it was _my_ fault that--"

"Shut up," Stephen said again, more insistent this time, and he made sure Jon could say nothing more.

\--

Every other weekend, Jon had custody of his kids, and sometimes they would take them all out to the park or a museum. It wasn't often--Maddie was usually busy with her friends, and though Peter had developed a small obsession with insects, John had at the same time developed a strong aversion to forestry of any kind--but it was treasured all the same.

Stephen had never really expected to get everything he wanted, knew that life didn't work like that. You settled for what scraps you could cling to and were grateful for them. 

But occasionally, Stephen was surrounded by five exuberant children--and sometimes a warm hand clasped Stephen's shoulder to express everything they left unspoken before its owner had to disappear after a small child making a break for freedom and the thorn bushes--and on clear days, the summer sun beat down against him and its heat soaked into his skin. 

All of these things made it enough.


End file.
